Wrong time of year

By my normal writing calendar, June is the wrong time of the year for this.

September, October, shortening days, interest in being indoors more – that’s the time for writing.

Except that’s not how it’s been of late. Mainly because of the lack of words.

Not speaking words, you understand. Speaking words we do a lot. Things like ‘eating, drinking and kind talking’, which are some kind of ingredients for how to get through mealtime without anyone coming to blows.

(That’s the theory, anyway. Junior and Mini are less sure about the reality, or maybe about how to get there.)

So, lots of speaking words. Writing words, not so many. Some in emails, fluffing about making notes (love a nice Evernote note), but not these kind of words.

I’m not really sure about the writing words at the moment either. They seem to be like fish that spend their time in deep, fairly murky waters.

Most of the time, you don’t know they’re there. You forget they’re there, to be honest.

Other people are hauling those deep-water words out for supper, and you, you shrug and say you’re fine with your sandwich.

(You’re a bit cross that you forgot about them. Or that you don’t catch sight of the river so much. Or that you seem to be without means for getting them out of the water.)

Anyway. The words are there, really, but you don’t have a lot to do with them.

Once in a while, you catch a glimpse of sunlight on the water, and…well, there might be ripples. Maybe one of those big-shot word-fish has come to the surface, looking for flies, or wanting a change of scenery.

Slightly more of the time, you don’t see the words. You kind of feel that they’re there.

There’s a kind of movement, and you sense that there might be some words. Some big catch, even.

Those words, the plump ones, they seem to be swimming a bit nearer. You can feel the current in the water shift as they approach.

What happens next is uncertain. They might retreat into the reeds. I’m not sure where they go. Maybe they are waiting for me to follow.

Maybe I need a Merlin-type figure nearby to turn me into a fish, like in The Sword in the Stone, then I can catch up. (That might get tricky to maintain. School pick up time and all that.)

Maybe the trick is just to lower myself into the water, to feel the current as those juicy words swim past. To sense which direction they’re going.

Maybe I can risk wading. I mean, I’ve not done any swimming for months as far as words go, but wading must be worth a try.

What happens next is uncertain. But I’d love to catch me some words. And if I’m lucky, maybe these fish are part of a bigger migration, coming upstream.

June is the wrong time of year for migrating fish, isn’t it? Still. Maybe I can sharpen a stick, and stand in the shallows, and watch.